


Nearly

by proxydialogue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post The Great Game, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proxydialogue/pseuds/proxydialogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't a kiss. It was CPR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nearly

**Author's Note:**

> Archived from LJ. Orig pub: 12/3/2010

It wasn't a kiss. It was CPR. 

It was a terrible, terrible plan. Communicated silently. Agreed on. Sherlock landed on John's back as they hit the water. He was the one with the gun. He was the last one down. John still took a bullet in the shoulder, lucky break, just a surface wound. Sherlock took the force of the explosion and the ceiling coming down on top of them. 

It took a thousand years to pull Sherlock to the surface with weight of the water bearing down like the fallen sky. 

There were sirens outside, drawing closer. Still too far away. Moriarty was gone with the smoke. 

Sherlock was alabaster white against the red smears on the tiles. He wasn't breathing. 

John coughed the water out of his lungs and leaned over his friend. He sealed Sherlock's mouth with his own, pinched his nostrils closed, and exhaled. He was counting compressions. He was trying not to crack Sherlock's ribs. 

It wasn't a kiss. 

He didn't notice if Sherlock's lips were pedal soft. He didn't memorize the contour of Sherlock's cheekbones. The first flutter—finally!—of a pulse in Sherlock's neck. He listened for the gurgle and the heave of the liquid leaving Sherlock's chest. He was praying to whatever God would listen. And, very briefly—I've been reliably informed—,he was wondering how different the scene would be—I don't have one.—if he were the ghost on the floor? Would Sherlock panic over him this way? 

We both know that's not quite true. 

It wasn't a kiss. 

But two weeks later, still coming down from the high of almost dead and almost alone for good, John lets his guilty hand wander lower, and pretends it was. 

 

xXx

 

John's mouth was like an adder's bite. 

It was not the best of plans, but it was the only option open to him. No. It was the only acceptable option open to him. There are always other options. But Sherlock could not turn John into the "necessary sacrifice" to win this chess game. So to say that it was not the best of plans was really to admit that it was, logically, the worst of all possible plans. It was a stupid plan that was likely to kill them both. The other plans, unfortunately, would definitely kill at least one of them, John: so he looked at John, made certain he was understood, and discharged the gun. 

The fire came at a rate no faster than expected. Sherlock had calculated the inadequacy of his own body, the seconds John would need to reach the pool, and when the heat licked his neck and shoulders he was listening to the crash in the water that said John was safely submerged. The explosion brought the sky down upon them. A glorious shock of ice and pain took Sherlock out of the world. 

For a moment, Sherlock's mind was cold and dark and perfect— 

John's mouth burned him back to life. 

When John is busy ignoring everything, sitting in a forced calm before the telly, Sherlock stares at the back of his head and wonders if it would burn like that now? He hears the whispers of his miscalculations in the way that John limps when he's not paying attention, in the bruise that still hasn't healed between his own shoulder blades, in the tiny red scar on John's left ear. If he kissed John, would it burn the noise away? 

But he forgets. Forgets! It wasn't a kiss. It was CPR. 

 

xXx

 

Lestrade had a—no he didn't—shock—none whatsoever—when he outran the rescue team to the smoking building and found to his—not so much—surprise that John was holding Sherlock down with his mouth. He was about to clear his throat and inquire after the appropriateness of right—about—time, right place. 

But it wasn't a kiss. It was CPR. 

His stomach fell out the bottom of his shoes and he hollered for the paramedics. 

He looks at the door of his office while he waits for his famous detective and the good doctor to come marching in and thinks about how he hates decorating for holidays. He sees, through the window, Sherlock holding the outside door open for his friend, and begins, just this once, to consider the hazards of mistletoe. 

Best not risk it, he decides. Anderson isn't one for knocking.


End file.
